


Free Pizza For Life

by aquarian_sunchild



Category: The Monkees, The Monkees (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Punk, Gen, Mild Language, Punk AU, whole lot of swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 14:40:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2154363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquarian_sunchild/pseuds/aquarian_sunchild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wanted to combine two of my favorite things into one story: Loud punk rock and The Monkees.  The result is a story of The Monkees as a modern punk band trying to make a name for themselves, and the lengths they were willing to go through to get some free food. Pete's a crusty kid with "Stay Posi" knuckle tattoos, Mike has a green mohawk, Micky won't let go of ska, and as always, Davy is madly in love with a girl.  </p>
<p>Inspired by the song "Free Pizza For Life" by Ghost Mice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Free Pizza For Life

Mike found the kid in a dumpster, more or less.

Later, he tried to tell Mike it was freeganism, or “urban scavenging” or whatever, but Mike could tell he was just another hungry and clueless kid hopelessly lost in LA. He seriously almost walked into traffic three times on the way to The Pad. 

The kid’s name was Pete and he turned out to be a pretty open book. He told Mike about how his parents were these uptight East Coast intellectuals who wanted him to be just as miserable as they were, so he figured a spontaneous trip west was a pretty effective way of throwing the finger at their lifestyle. He used the money from his eighteenth birthday to get “Stay Posi” tattooed on his knuckles and buy a one-way bus ticket. When he finished sharing his life story, Pete looked up at Mike with big blue eyes, begging to be validated somehow for his badass move. Mike couldn’t help but laugh. Pete was like a puppy. A kinda filthy puppy in taped-up Chucks, but a puppy nonetheless.

Mike, Micky and Davy shared The Pad as a joint effort. Going into it, they figured that three guys would be more than capable of paying rent on one dilapidated old beach house. But then reality set in: they could only get so many gigs, and it wasn’t like basement shows paid much if at all, and the three of them couldn’t hold a job if it was stitched to their hand. They were essentially squatting while their landlord was ever-so-conveniently vacationing in the Caribbean.

Mike introduced Pete to the guys as a kid who needed a couch to camp out on for a while. Davy gave him the eye briefly, and silently nodded his approval. Davy was trying this new quiet-and-mysterious bullshit to try and impress the lead singer of Compulsory Castration, a new riot-grrrl band that had just recently started making buzz. For Micky and Mike, Davy’s flirting endeavors were free entertainment, especially after their cable got cut and Micky had to pawn his laptop.

Micky was like the polar opposite of whatever Davy was currently trying to be and anything Mike actually was. Micky was a restless product of his environment. He grew up in SoCal in the 90s, surrounded by the hyperactive bounce of Social Distortion, NoFX and Op Ivy. And ska. Micky was the last die-hard ska fan alive, it seemed. He still liked yelling “pickituppickituppickitup” in the middle of songs, and he once busted a guy’s lip over an insult to his Reel Big Fish shirt. At least he had given up on trying to make fedoras happen again. 

After the awkward introduction, Pete shrugged off his duffel bag that he had been clinging to since Mike had seen him. In his other hand he still clutched a weird little instrument case. Too thin to be a guitar, but too long to be a violin.

“Dude, is that a banjo?”

Pete hesitated. Micky sounded ready to be derisive. Nonetheless, he pulled out his old and yellowed banjo and plucked out a few notes.

In no time at all, he was rocking out an Andrew Jackson Jihad song that Mike recognized, all the while singing softly to himself. After that, Pete felt confident enough to start playing another song.

“Holy fuck.” Micky’s tone had changed from sarcastic to genuinely impressed. Even Davy’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “I never thought I’d hear ‘Rise Above’ on banjo.”  
Pete smiled shyly. “I figured I should learn some West Coast bands.”

Mike scratched at his green mohawk in thought. “So uh, are you interested in being in a band?”  
***  
After a little pawning and haggling, the as-yet unnamed band finally acquired a bass for their newfound bassist. He was also a banjo-player and a keyboard player if they ever felt like going in that sort of direction. Pete could play almost anything, it seemed. Mike and Micky were still playing guitar and drums, and Micky was doing vocals until Davy was done trying to seduce hardcore girls with a vow of silence. Until then, Davy played tambourine on the calmer folk-punk songs they were trying with Pete, and it actually worked. 

Pete and Mike quickly found common ground on their love of folk-punk and old school music. Mike had finally found someone else who understood how punk rock Johnny Cash was.

They sat opposite of each other at the wobbly-legged card table in the kitchen on a hot, syrupy August day. The rest of the world was outside enjoying the sun and surf, while Davy blasted Sham 69 in the living room. Mike and Pete had to yell their conversation at each other.

“So, what are you doing here?”

_**“What?”**_

“You’re from Texas, right? What brought you to California?”

“I wanted to actually be part of a scene, I guess. Being the only punk kid in Buttfuck, Texas gets old after a while.”

Pete laughed. “And look at the scene you got into. A bunch of hooligans in an old beach house.”

The phone rang and Micky yelled at Davy to turn his music down. Mike had to catch himself from yelling again. “Yeah. Bunch of damn dirty apes.”

Pete knocked his ‘Posi’ hand on the table. A thought had struck him. “That’s a band name right there. Damn Dirty Apes.”

“Nah, too long. I like short-and-sweet names. Rancid, Ramones, L7, stuff like that. It’d be better if it was just something like, ‘Monkeys’, but maybe spelled wrong or something. Like with two Es instead.”   
Pete threw his hands over his head. “Hallelujah! Sounds like we finally have a band name!”

Mike’s moment of brilliance was cut short by Micky rolling down the bannister screaming. “Guysguysguysguys we have a gig! Vincent Van-Gogh-Gogh next week. Compulsory Castration is putting out a split EP with Nuns With Guns, they’re doing a big show to celebrate and they wanted to know if we could throw something together!”

Davy’s jaw dropped. “Compulsory Castration? We’d be opening for Rosalind’s band? Holy shit, she’s gonna love me!” 

Now it was Peter’s jaw that fell open. “Dude, I didn’t know you were Irish!”

Davy glared. “Irish? Like a leprechaun? You callin’ me short, mate? Bash your fuckin’ teeth in I will…”

Once they were able to pull Davy off of Pete, the Monkees celebrated their upcoming gig by binging on all the food they could find in the house. Corn flakes, sunflower seeds, root beer and a hot dog for everyone.  
***  
Saturday night rolled up and things were going great. The newly dubbed Monkeemobile didn’t break down until they were in the Vincent Van Gogh-Gogh’s parking lot. Christine from Nuns with Guns let Peter borrow her far superior bass. And apparently performers got free nachos from the bar. Either that, or the guy working could tell The Monkees hadn’t really eaten in days. In any case, everything was going so well that Mike started to wonder if he was dreaming.

Then the crowd started filing in.

Compulsory Castration was an all-female grindcore band. Their longest song was just over a minute long and about a world without men. Nuns with Guns were pretty similar. Their last LP had a twelve-second song called “Kill Your Local Rapist” that consisted of four chords and the words “FUCK YOU”. Their fans were neo-riot grrls with angry feminist pins bought on Etsy and floral-print switchblades in their bras in case fucking with the patriarchy got more hands-on. The guys in The Monkees and the dude working the bar were the only Y chromosomes in the place.

They really should have known better, and now they were going to get murdered. Even worse, they were going to get murdered by an angry teenager with Sailor Moon brass knuckles.

Compulsory Castration were playing first, followed by Nuns with Guns. The Monkees were being introduced as “new friends” for the last set.

The first two sets were going by way too quickly for comfort. Backstage, Micky was so panicky that he couldn’t sit still to save his life. For the first time in possibly ever, Davy found himself terrified to be in a building full of females. Peter excused himself behind a dumpster outside to puke.

Mike was petrified, but he wasn’t going to let it show. He needed this show, man. He’d felt like a failure his entire life and all he wanted was one successful moment. Just one. He wasn’t going to let a bunch of girls in Bikini Kill shirts who weren’t even born when Bikini Kill broke up take this moment away from him without one hell of a fight.

“Guys. Come here.” His crew formed a shaking circle around him. “Listen, I know we had a setlist all planned out, but I think we might win this place over if we make a few changes. Or maybe a lot of changes.”

Micky wasn’t buying Mike’s confidence “That’s great, Mike, but they’re angry hardcore girls and we’re guys. They’re going to want to tear us apart on principle.” 

Mike actually allowed himself to laugh at that. “I think I have a plan for that too…”  
***  
“FUCK YOU AND YOUR STUPID GREEN MOHAWK, ASSWIPE!”

Well. The crowd obviously loved them already. The Monkees hadn’t played a single note and Davy already had to use his tambourine to deflect a half-full beer can from his face.

But Mike had committed to this, and projectile beer cans weren’t going to stop him. “Yeah, whatever. We’re The Monkees and you can kill us after we play our set, alright? This is called ‘Randy Scouse Git’.”

This was Micky’s favorite song to play because he got to pound out a heart-attack beat on dual pedals and scream at the top of his lungs. The venue was so small and cramped that every one of Micky’s drumbeats sounded like a gunshot through the speakers. The song’s line about hating and killing got some attention, and Mike could make out a few heads bopping along with the beat. They even got a “Whoo!” after that one.

After that, they went right into “Mommy and Daddy”, and the response started getting warmer. They were somehow able to telepathically communicate to each other to keep playing the last segment, and Davy led the crowd in chants of “You’re living a lie!”

Micky was getting into his stage-whore state of mind, which Mike was hoping for. He watched the drummer jump from his seat, yelling “You’re all gonna love this one, it’s about a drunk guy killing himself!” That was met with cheers as Peter played the intro of “Goin’Down”. 

The crowd loved their cover of “I’m Not Your Steppin’ Stone” and Pete’s banjo renditions of Dead Kennedys. They wrapped up with that song they had been working on for a while about suburban consumerism, “Pleasant Valley Sunday”, and it finally came together at the perfect moment. The riotgrrl swarm loved it. And then it was over. It was like a firework, loud and unforgettable, but gone so quick. In the end, the only thing any of them would honestly change was the teasing aroma of the pizza place next door.

After the show, Davy was riding a post-performance adrenaline high and finally mustered up the courage to ask Rosalind out. He wasn’t exactly shot down, just informed that Rosalind preferred girls. Christine, however, kept calling Davy “absolutely adorable” and saying that he had such an adorable accent and that his use of non-traditionally punk instruments was fascinating. Although this new development probably meant that Davy would soon be going from silent to a non-stop British chatterbox, it also meant having connections in the local scene. A blessing in disguise. For the first time in ages, Mike felt like he was part of something that could actually go somewhere. 

So. Mike had wrangled another plate of nachos from the bar, Davy was chatting up Christine, and Micky was hanging out with an infamous local crusty kid named Russell and his dog (yeah, the guy smelled like a dead fratboy’s armpit, but Micky would never turn down the opportunity to hang out with a dog). Where was Pete? The kid was still so naïve, it was impossible to tell what mess he could have gotten himself into. 

He still seemed so jumpy after their set that Mike wondered if Pete had to vomit again. He shoved the backstage door open and felt the cool smack of the outside world for the first time in hours. He didn’t realize how crowded and stuffy Vincent Van Gogh Gogh was while he was playing. Luckily, he didn’t have to search far for Peter. He was just across the alley at the Fat Frankie’s pizza place.

More specifically, he was in their dumpster. Seriously, this kid and his thing for dumpster diving was getting close to Russell’s level of crust cred.

Pete briefly looked like a deer in headlights, and then threw up his hands in defense. “Look, Mike, I know you told me about freeganism and all, but I kept smelling pizza during our set and I got this idea. You know how Fat Frankie’s has been doing those coupon flyers with like, free 12-inches and stuff?”

Mike nodded. “Of course, Pete. That’s basically how we’ve been surviving for the past few days.”

Pete’s eyes sparkled with something Mike never expected—mischief. “Okay, so let’s say Fat Frankie’s prints out a ton of flyers each week and only go through a certain amount. Where do you suppose the rest of the flyers go?”

It took only the briefest moment for Mike to process what Pete was getting at, and the next thing he knew he was knee-deep in used paper plates and napkins. Between the two of them, they managed a six-inch stack of pizza and wings coupons that didn’t expire until sometime in the next year.

Compulsory Castration, Nuns with Guns and Russell gave them a hero’s welcome back at the Vincent Van Gogh Gogh. The sheet pizza was big enough for everyone who was still straggling around, and Russell’s dog got treated to his own styrofoam box of boneless chicken wings.

Rosalind pulled Mike to a quiet corner. Her makeup was all sorts of smudged after a night of sweating and running around a stage, and the greasy pizza smeared her black lipstick around even more. She wiped her mouth with a napkin, leaving an inkblot on the brown paper as she talked. “So like, we were pretty impressed by you guys tonight. A lot lighter than what we do, but in a good way. Like cleansing the palette or something. Anyway, I was talking with the other girls and we were wondering if you were interested in coming with us on our tour? It’s just up and down the West coast, but it’d be a cool adventure, yeah? And God knows it’d be so much better having you guys open than letting the venues pick someone up. Christine was really pushing for you guys, by the way. Might have to get a separate van for her and Davy.”

Mike could feel his mouth moving to form words, but nothing was coming out. The best he could manage was a squeak of a shocked laugh. “Urk?”

Rosalind laughed. “Can I assume that means ‘yes’?” Mike nodded like an idiot bobblehead.

Of course the other guys in The Monkees wanted to tour. This was what they had all wanted ever since they each discovered the scene in their own way. They didn’t exactly want fame or industry love, they just wanted to hang out with cool people and make fun music. And now they were finally getting a chance to do it.

Mike was still stunned when he thought about the way things had come together so well in the past few weeks. The band had gotten a bassist, a name and a presence in virtually no time at all. And none of it would have happened if he hadn’t noticed a disoriented blonde in a dumpster. 

The best part? Fat Frankie’s was a West Coast chain. No one would have to pay a red cent for food unless they weren’t interested in free pizza.

But seriously, who would say no to free pizza?


End file.
